During this calendar year of 2023, I have begun focusing on the months of the biblical year.  I have long known they existed.  They are mentioned in many parts of the Hebrew scriptures, the Old Testament.  I just never paid much attention to them.

I began with Adar, which is the twelfth and final month on the calendar.  This year, it began on Ash Wednesday.  It’s focus is joy, and it is demonstrated by the book of Esther.

Then there is Nisan, the first month.  The highlight is the premier feast, Passover (or Pesach).  It’s followed by Iyar, the second month, which is a month of transition.  The Israelites have been through the exodus and are in the wilderness. They complain of thirst and hunger.  They are still on the way.

Sivan is the third month.  It features Shavuot, or Pentecost.  Traditionally, the book of Ruth is associated with it.  There’s the all-night study session.  For that, you better have some strong coffee or Turkish tea on hand!

The fourth month in the biblical calendar is Tammuz.  We are more than halfway through it.  The theme, or the association, with Tammuz in Hebrew thought is vision.  It is a month of darkness and light.  It is the month of the eyes.  Guard your eyes, we are told; guard your heart.

The word “Tammuz” only appears once in the Bible (Ezekiel 8:14).  It’s mentioned in a passage in which the Lord is revealing to the prophet, who is in Babylon with the exiles, what abominations are occurring back in the temple in Jerusalem.  There is a lovely list of them, but here’s the one relevant to us.

“Then he brought me to the entrance of the north gate of the house of the Lord, and I saw women sitting there, mourning the god Tammuz.  He said to me, ‘Do you see this, son of man?  You will see things that are even more detestable than this.’”  Oh goody!

So who is this Tammuz?  There are various versions of the story, but here’s a common theme.  He was a god of spring, and the myth regarding him told of his early death and of the descent of Ishtar his bride into the underworld in search of him.  The death of Tammuz symbolized the destruction of the spring vegetation by the heat of summer, and it was celebrated annually by seven days of women’s mourning, if that can be considered celebrating.

Some say he was a handsome god, the Babylonian version of Adonis, if we can set aside the fact that Adonis was mortal.  No wonder the ladies lamented so bitterly.

Here’s an obvious question: why name the month after a pagan god, indeed after an idol?

Look at the Ten Commandments.  Right off the bat, here’s the big number one.  “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me” (Ex 20:2-3, Dt 5:6-7).  That would seem to settle it!

Again, there are many answers, but one recurring theme is a warning to avoid idolatry.  The message is to gain mastery over it.  The annual appearance of the month of Tammuz is a constant reminder of that lesson.

One story dealing with this month concerns the twelve spies sent into the land of Canaan by Moses.  (One representative for each of the twelve tribes of Israel.)  In Numbers 13 and 14 we see the command to “spy” out the region.  This is all about vision.  The spies were to use their eyes.

I like how the New International Version presents Moses’ volley of questions.  “See what the land is like and whether the people who live there are strong or weak, few or many.  What kind of land do they live in?  Is it good or bad?  What kind of towns do they live in?  Are they unwalled or fortified?  How is the soil?  Is it fertile or poor?  Are there trees in it or not?  Do your best to bring back some of the fruit of the land” (13:18-20).

Then there’s an editorial comment.  “It was the season of the first ripe grapes.”  That’s how we know this was the month of Tammuz, which is the time of the grape harvest.

When the scouts return, they admit the lushness of “the land of milk and honey.”  However, there are problems.  They report seeing cities which in fact are fortified—and what’s more, the people who live there are giants!  In comparison, we look like grasshoppers.  The land devours those who dare enter it.  Their advice: it’s not worth the risk.  Christine Vales says, “They believed the fake news from the ten spies network.”[1]  There’s a conspiracy to stage a coup and find someone to lead them back to Egypt.

On a side note, the ten spies network has a report concerning the descendants of Anak and the Nephilim.  Who are these Nephilim?  There’s a strange story in Genesis 6 regarding them.  We read, “The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans, who bore children to them.  These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown” (v. 4).

So according to the story, celestial beings mated with human women, who gave birth to the Nephilim, who were giants.  Many cultures have legends about giants who lived long ago.

Speaking of giants, if you travel along I-90 in southern Minnesota, you might encounter the Green Giant giant with a height of 55 feet!  (I think it’s still there.)  And in Nashville’s Centennial Park, there is a full-scale replica of the Parthenon, inhabited by a 42 foot-high statue of Athena, goddess of wisdom, the tallest indoor statue in the United States.

Let’s go back to the conflicting testimonies.  Joshua and Caleb have an alternate vision.  They acknowledge the difficulties but see a different destiny.  They aren’t blind, and they aren’t naïve.  Where the others see tragedy, they see triumph.  Their eyes and their hearts imagine a different reality.

Is it plausible, is it any way possible, during their mission of reconnaissance that Joshua and Caleb quite literally see what the other ten don’t?  As just mentioned, sure, they see the cities and the people.  Do their preliminary expectations alter what they can visualize?  I don’t know; perhaps not.  Regardless, I have been learning (or re-learning) for myself how my willingness to see affects what I truly see.  I think I’m moving closer to that type of leap of faith.

If I don’t want to see something, does that mean I won’t see it?  On the flip side, if I do want to see something, does that mean I will see it?  Maybe.

We humans are making it easier to play tricks on our own eyes.  Virtual reality opens up a whole new world of make-believe.  We can see things, whether we want to or not.  Virtual reality can present us with images, from our most heavenly dreams and from our most hellish nightmares.

In any event, it is safe to say our differences in vision run deeper than the technological.  I would suggest reliance on the technological, for good or ill (it can be either) is helping to re-wire our imaginations.  Artificial intelligence (AI) is able to not only trick our eyes, but what might feed our souls, by composing poems and sermons—tricking the eyes of the heart.

Last year, Rabbi Josh Franklin, who serves a synagogue on Long Island, preached a sermon written by AI.[2]  Before he began, he told the congregants he would engage in plagiarism.  He challenged them to guess who wrote the sermon.  “When he revealed that it was in fact written by a robot, Franklin said to the congregation: ‘You’re clapping, I’m deathly afraid.  I thought truck drivers would go long before rabbis in terms of losing our positions to artificial intelligence.’”

(Okay, I’ll confess, all of this is the composition of a robot.)

Joshua and Caleb want the Israelites to see.  This isn’t virtual reality.  Yes, there are fortified cities, and the people there are fierce.  They plead with them, “do not rebel against the Lord, and do not fear the people of the land, for they are no more than bread for us” (14:9).  We can eat them up!

See them.  Really see them.  “Their protection is removed from them.”  The word for “protection” is צֵל (tsēl), which literally means “shadow.”  They have no cover from the burning hot sun.  They are exposed.

Tammuz is a month for vision.  It is a month of darkness and light.

On that question of darkness and light, Sarah Schneider speaks of God in creation, “And God saw that the light was good” (Gn 1:4).  She shares a teaching from Kabbalah.  “In each instant of time, creation reverts to chaos and is born anew…  In each moment we are dissolved and reconstituted, faster than the blink of an eye.”[3]

In our darkness, when we’re not sure what we see…  In our darkness, when we find ourselves worshipping and weeping for a false god…  In our darkness, when we say no to the guidance leading us to the promised land…  In our darkness, the light is constantly being reborn, just as we are.

Within the darkness of suffering, the light of healing is present.  It is present in Jesus Christ, the light of the world.

[1] www.youtube.com/watch?v=SL0YhAZz6ag (at 12:40)

[2] www.thejc.com/news/world/new-york-rabbi-delivers-full-sermon-written-by-artificial-intelligence-6BkwDEHc2ZWR63tmoOdvvf

[3] www.chabad.org/kabbalah/article_cdo/aid/2241467/jewish/Tammuz-the-Month-of-Darkness-and-Light.htm

How about New York Cheesecake as part of a religious celebration?  When Christians celebrate Pentecost, that particular dessert rarely figures into the equation.  However, the observance of the Jewish holiday of Shavuot often has mouths savoring that delicious treat.

[photo by Monika Grabkowska at Unsplash]

Can we imagine cheesecake as a holy food?  It puts a whole new spin on the psalm saying, “O taste and see that the Lord is good” (34:8).

Okay, backing up a bit…  Shavuot is the Hebrew word for “weeks.”  It is one of the three festivals in the Hebrew scriptures required for pilgrimage to the temple in Jerusalem.  The other two are Passover (or Pesach) and the Feast of Tabernacles (or Sukkot).

Shavuot was originally a harvest festival when the first of the crops sprouted, thus the term “firstfruits,” which were brought to the temple.  It was observed seven weeks and one day after Passover—fifty days.  In Greek, “Pentecost” means fifty.  For the church, Pentecost is today.  For Jews, Shavuot ended yesterday at sundown; it is celebrated for two days.  The timing difference is due to Shavuot being counted after Passover and Pentecost being counted after Easter.

When the Romans destroyed the temple in the year 70, there was nowhere to bring the firstfruits.  Consequently, the focus shifted to the revelation of Torah to Moses at Mount Sinai.  Other than the exodus from Egypt, this is the premier event giving identity to the Jewish people.  The giving of the word is the aspect I wish to make my focus.

Lacking any specific requirements, Shavuot is kept by special services, recognizing it as a day of rest, and among other events, enjoying holiday meals.  Dairy foods are highlighted, thus the mention of cheesecake!

Still, the divine encounter with Moses, associated with the day of Pentecost, is front and center.  That is given special attention.  One way of giving that attention is by pulling an all-nighter while engaged in the study of scripture.  Some might suggest having coffee and strong tea on hand!

[As an aside, I have a story about strong tea—quite strong tea, which Turkish tea is.  Banu’s parents were visiting us from Istanbul when we lived in Jamestown (about 20 years ago now).  Turks drink a lot of tea, which is fine with me, because I love tea.  They use small glasses, which we had.  Then I got the smart idea of filling up a large mug.  Turkish tea, with its elevated volume of caffeine, has an even greater diuretic effect.  Suffice to say, I made a greater than usual amount of trips to the bathroom that evening.]

There is a legend saying God offered the Torah to 70 different nations, doing so in their own languages.  All refused to accept it.  However, when God approached Israel at Sinai, the word was welcomed.  In Exodus 19:8 we read, “The people all answered as one, ‘Everything that the Lord has spoken we will do.’  Moses reported the words of the people to the Lord.”

By the way, that puts a different spin on Israel being God’s “chosen” people.  They “chose” to follow the Torah.  (Perhaps the word is better translated as “instructions” or “teachings.”)

Naomi Wolf, who throughout her life has been a decidedly left-wing feminist (though doesn’t one have to be leftist to be a feminist!), has over the past couple of years, rediscovered her faith.  She speaks of the “Hebrew Bible [as] more about love and less about rules.  The rules are the guardrails for the love.  And God is always seeking out ordinary people—while clothed in his own Person.”[1]  I really like that definition of Torah: rules as guardrails for love.

In the New Testament, in Acts 2, we see Jews from many far-flung nations gathered in Jerusalem to celebrate the feast of Pentecost.  We are told how the Holy Spirit rushed in like a violent wind with fire.  Descending upon them all, they spoke in tongues in their native languages, praising the Lord.

Incidentally, in verse 1 we hear, “When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place.”  Were they doing the all-night study?  Maybe they had some strong tea.

Pentecost is often considered to be the birthday of the church.  After the fire fell, the Spirit being poured out on all flesh, the number of believers began to increase exponentially.  Starting in Jerusalem, the church quickly spread out in all directions.

The legend of the nations refusing the word of the Lord was reversed.

Can we see, or better, can we hear those with their own languages understanding each other?  The nations represented did not all live in blissful accord with one other.  Understanding that, the Pax Romana, the “Roman peace” of the Empire imposed in a somewhat and imperfectly harmonious way a sense of stability and prosperity.

We often hear of the Roman Empire as the enemy of the church.  That wasn’t always the case, through it’s true there were some emperors who made a special effort at persecution.  Having said that, the Empire greatly aided in spreading the gospel.  There are many ways in which this happened, but I’ll limit myself to three.

First, the Romans had an impressive and well-maintained network of roads.  This aided people in their travels, including folks like the apostle Paul and his friends.

Secondly, the imperial economy enabled commerce from a vast expanse of territory on three continents.  There was a great exchange of peoples, with various nationalities, beliefs, social classes, whatever—but it made no difference, because the gospel of Jesus Christ appeals to all.

The last one I’ll mention deals with language, since that’s the theme we’ve been addressing.  In the 4th century BC, Alexander the Great did his part in spreading Greek culture throughout the Middle East and into Egypt.  Of course, the local languages remained, but the Romans used Greek as the primary language in the eastern half of the empire.  When you want to carry a message, it helps if there’s a common tongue to express it!

Can we not say we see the Spirit of the Lord at work?  Can we imagine the Spirit giving birth to the word of revolution?

I’m not really speaking of revolution on a national scale.  Rather for each of us, it must start from within: a revolution within our minds, hearts, and spirits.

That is the promise and power of Shavuot, of Pentecost.

In Deuteronomy 26, we see instructions on how the firstfruits are to be handled.  With verses 5 to 9, we have a confession of faith, an affirmation of faith.  “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor” (v. 5).  The reference is to Jacob.  (By the way, Aram was a region encompassing Syria and northern modern-day Iraq.)

There follows a sketch of historical events.  The Israelites, having settled in Egypt, became numerous and the Egyptians in turn subjected them to slavery.  But the Lord heard their cry and delivered them.  They were brought into “a land flowing with milk and honey” (v. 9).  Acknowledging the goodness of God, the Israelites present before the Lord “the first of the fruit of the ground” (v. 10).

The passage ends at verse 11, “Then you, together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you, shall celebrate with all the bounty that the Lord your God has given to you and to your house.”  We often see special provisions for the poor, the orphan, the widow, and so on.  However, here we see singled out “the aliens who reside among you.”

There is the reminder just as the Lord had mercy on the Israelites while aliens in Egypt, so they are to extend that same mercy to the aliens in their midst, to the sojourners among them.

That is a big part of the promise and power of Shavuot, of Pentecost: the word empowering us to reach out to all nations.

The empowering word is ultimately focused in the Living Word.

John 7 declares, “On the last day of the festival, the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, ‘Let anyone who is thirsty come to me’” (v. 37).

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing / Tune my heart to sing Thy grace / Streams of mercy, never ceasing / Call for songs of loudest praise.”

The festival referred to isn’t Pentecost, rather it is the Feast of Tabernacles, one of the three mentioned earlier requiring observation for those at all capable of making the trip to the temple.

Jesus continues, “let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water’” (v. 38).  Which scripture is meant is a mystery.  It doesn’t appear in the Bible.  A number of suggestions have been made.  Perhaps the most likely is Exodus 17:6, where Moses strikes the rock and water comes gushing out.

[I mentioned this last month.  Due to their bitter thirst, the people threaten to stone Moses.  The Lord has Moses whack the stone.]

We are told, “Now he said this about the Spirit, which believers in him were to receive, for as yet there was no Spirit because Jesus was not yet glorified” (v. 39).  That doesn’t mean the Spirit did not exist, but instead the Spirit had not yet been given.  This is, so to speak, a pre-Pentecost statement.

Later in his gospel, John has the final conversation between Jesus and his disciples.  Jesus says, “When the Advocate [that is, the Helper or Comforter] comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf.  You also are to testify, because you have been with me from the beginning” (14:26-27).

The Spirit will speak the word on behalf of Jesus, on behalf of the Messiah.  We also are to speak the word.  We are to testify, to give witness, on behalf of Jesus.

Are we thirsty for the water of the Spirit?  We can be a well springing up with the Holy Spirit.

There is a word pointing to a reality beyond our imagining, beyond our usual frame of reference.  It bears an unveiling; it displays the debris.  It burns away the impurities.  We are given power to say no to squandering our lives and resources on meaningless consumption.  We are given courage to embrace a lifestyle not dictated by marketing trends or unhealthy spending habits.

It is the word come alive.  It is the word revealed at Sinai, the word spoken at Pentecost.  It is not simply the word to be read.  It is the word desiring to befriend us, to unleash our creativity.

That is the word we desperately need when it calls our name.

[1] naomiwolf.substack.com/p/do-we-resemble-god

I recently watched Lawrence of Arabia in its entirety: I had only seen bits and pieces before.  (It clocks in at 3 and a half hours.)  It’s a great movie, and I could give a summary of the plot, but I want to focus on one aspect of the voyage to Aqaba.  It was occupied by the Ottoman Turks during World War 1.  It had a strategic position on the Red Sea coast.  Aqaba was primarily defended against a naval invasion, since approaches from the desert were thought to be too hazardous.

“Wadi Rum, Aqaba, Jordan” photo by Juli Kosolapova on Unsplash

Nonetheless, that’s the route T. E. Lawrence and his Bedouin allies took.  I have never made a desert trek, let alone one as grueling as through the deserts of Arabia.  Clearly, the most important commodity is water.  I recall the scenes of the burning sun and frightening heat, the whipping wind of the sandstorms, and the camels laboring in that oven.

There is another desert trek that comes to mind, and it involves Moses and the children of Israel, having fled the slavery of Egypt.  They have been in the wilderness for three days, without finding water—at least, not water fit to drink.  Exodus 15 tells us of the people’s grumbling.  I think “grumbling” would be putting it lightly!

Imagine three days without water.  Imagine their thirst and the thirst of their animals.  When they do come upon water, it is useless.  It is bitter, so they named the place Marah, meaning “bitter.”  Moses finds a tree with curative properties, after some prompting by the Lord.  It is used to render the water clean, potable.  Theologians, scientists, and madmen have weighed in on the nature of this plant.  Ultimately, its power flows from the obedience of Moses to the Lord’s direction.

“If you will listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God, and do what is right in his sight, and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes, I will not bring upon you any of the diseases that I brought upon the Egyptians, for I am the Lord who heals you” (v. 26).

I am the Lord your healer.  I am Yahweh Rapha (רָפָא).  Listen to my voice because I am the Lord who heals you.  The foul, bitter water is healed.

So they are indeed on this trek into the desert, into the wilderness.  The Hebrew word for “wilderness” is מִדְבָּר (midbar).  It has a secondary meaning of “mouth,” as used in speaking, as opposed to eating or breathing.  God is speaking to them in the wilderness.  Do they have the ears to hear?  What about us?  Do we have the ears to hear?

However, the Israelites are moving their mouths.  They are grumbling; they are raising Cain!  Still, as we saw, it is difficult to blame them.  Thirst can have one doing things one would not ordinarily do.

Quickly looking ahead, in chapter 16, the problem is hunger.  The Lord provides quail and manna.  The Lord is their provider.  In chapter 17, the multitude again faces lack of water.  Moses cries out that they’re ready to stone him.  The Lord has him get a big stick and give the stone a good whack.  Water comes surging out.

(Don’t say God lacks a wonderful sense of humor.)

The biblical month of Iyar began at sundown on Friday.  Iyar is the second month on the calendar.  It has a focus on healing.  It is also a month of transition.  In the case of Moses and the people of Israel, it is a transition from slavery to freedom, from the diseases in Egypt to healing in the wilderness.

What transitions are we in need of?  What healings are we in need of?  Are we willing to receive them?

Speaking of willingness to receive, John tells us the story of Jesus at the pool of Beth-zatha, or Bethesda.  We will see that water and healing are, once more, again linked.

Banu and I have been watching the tv show, The Chosen.  It is a series about Jesus and the people who met him.  It is very well done.  Not to give offense, but many Christian movies have one-dimensional story lines and bad acting.

Season 2, episode 4 is called “The Perfect Opportunity.”[1]  It begins with a scene of a little boy running to climb a tree.  However, a branch snaps and he falls to the ground and is left paralyzed.  He has to be carried wherever he goes.  Jumping ahead, his mother dies while giving birth to his little brother.  We see the boys as they grow up.  The older brother is identified as Jesse.

As young men, they come upon a Roman soldier beating and kicking the crap out of a Jewish man.  You can see the hatred in the younger brother’s eyes.

The lame brother winds up at a pool surrounded by others in need of healing.  The younger brother takes his anger at the Roman occupiers and joins a group where he receives military training.  Again, we see the two as they age.  Jesse is never able to get in the pool, which periodically bubbles up.  The water is said to have healing properties.  It was likely an underground spring.  As time goes by, his hair gets more and more disheveled, and his clothes get grungier and grungier.  His hair starts turning gray.

It turns out the younger brother is Simon the Zealot.  Of course, the scriptures don’t say the two are brothers, but the creative imagining works well in the episode’s plot.

Now, back to the gospel!

Jesus visits the pool and sees the man, as we’re told, who has been ill for thirty-eight years.  Verse 4 is left out of many translations since it’s often considered to have been added later.  Here it is following verse 3: “many ill, blind, lame, and paralyzed people [lay] waiting for the stirring of the water, for an angel of the Lord went down from time to time into the pool and stirred up the water; whoever stepped in first after the stirring of the water was made well from whatever disease that person had.”

Jesus sees the man, knowing he’s been there for a long time.  I don’t imagine Jesus needs any special insight.  Just looking at the poor fellow speaks volumes!

Now, back to the idea of willingness to receive, Jesus puts the question to him, “Do you want to be made well?” (v. 6).  Do you want to be healed?  He doesn’t exactly answer the question.  Rather, he laments that he’s never been able to get to the water in time.  No one helps him.  Jesus doesn’t use any special medicine; he doesn’t wave a magic wand; he doesn’t utter any exceptional words.  He just tells the guy to get up, pick up your bed, and go for a walk.

Returning to the episode of The Chosen, long ago Simon wrote a letter to Jesse saying if he ever stood on two legs, that would mean Messiah has come.  Simon is with a hit squad to assassinate a Roman magistrate.  Just as the signal is given, Simon sees Jesse walking around.  He abandons his life with the Zealots—he knows Messiah has come.  He casts in his lot with this wandering rabbi, Jesus.

This is the month of Iyar.  There is healing.  There is transition.  The children of Israel had healing.  They had transition.  The lame man had healing.  He had transition.  Simon the Zealot had healing.  He had transition.  He was healed of his violence.  He had transition to following Jesus.

I asked before, “What transitions are we in need of?  What healings are we in need of?  Are we willing to receive them?”

Over these three past years, I’ve had a bit of transition and healing.  Please forgive me; I know some of my comments might be hard to hear.

When Covid started, I supported the lockdowns.  I can’t say I didn’t have greatly mixed feelings about being told we couldn’t worship together in person.  Still, I was reluctantly okay with casting a wide net, even knowing the devastating effect it would have on small local businesses.

We weren’t allowed to touch each other; in fact, we had to maintain a distance of at least six feet.  I will confess that when a friend of ours feared she might have locked her mom’s keys in her car, I reflexively put my arm around her shoulders to console her.  (As it turned out, it was a false alarm.  The keys were quickly found!)

Children, when finally allowed to attend school, in many places found themselves behind plexiglass walls, aside from falling miserably behind in their studies.

And I won’t get started on the vaccines.

So, I feel like I’ve had my own transition and healing.  I’ve had my own taste of that fresh, flowing water.

After the incident at Marah, when the Israelites finally had fresh water, we are told, “Then they came to Elim, where there were twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees, and they camped there by the water” (v. 27).  They arrived at an oasis, which relatively speaking would have been small, considering the large number of travelers.  Twelve springs wouldn’t have produced an abundance of water, but it seems to have been enough.

That seems to be the way God deals with us.  We usually have just enough.  In chapter 16, when God provides the quail and manna, the people are warned against keeping some manna until morning.  They are either greedy or afraid God won’t take care of them.  Whatever the case, the manna rots and is infested with worms and maggots.

We have just enough, and indeed much more than enough, when we come to Christ—when we approach him for the water that is always fresh and never runs dry.  As it says, “On the last day of the [Feast of Tabernacles], the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water’” (Jn 7:37-38).

photo by Sergio Cerrato on Pixabay

Jesus says to us, “Come to me and drink, and I will give you life.”

[1] www.imdb.com/title/tt14457406/?ref_=ttep_ep4

“When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law” (v. 4).  That’s how a text in Galatians which I want to consider begins.  One might say that it’s a sentence pregnant with meaning!

(adoption symbol)

It continues in verse 5, “in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.”  The apostle Paul is speaking of us, but adoption isn’t limited to the human race.  Our local paper frequently features dogs and cats who apparently are able to introduce themselves.  They speak of their likes and dislikes.  And, of course, they all are seeking a fur-ever family!

The scripture in Galatians points to two aspects of salvation—justification and adoption.

Justification can be seen as a negative work.  It involves—in Christ—a redemption from, a restoration from, an erasing, of the mark of sin.  That doesn’t sum it up, but it can be seen as a removal.  Adoption, on the other hand, is more of a positive work.  Something new is brought into being.  Something new, something tangible, is created.

In his book, Knowing God, the late J. I. Packer made the distinction, “Justification is a forensic [or legal] idea, conceived in terms of law, and viewing God as judge.”  At the same time, “Adoption is a family idea, conceived in terms of love, and viewing God as Father.”[1]

Paul says to the Galatians that the birth of Jesus is the story of a new member in the family.  Applied to us, it means that we have been adopted into God’s family.

So there are different images at work.  A prisoner who has served a term may be cleared legally, but whether he or she is received back into the family of society is an open question.  It’s likely that the stigma of being in prison will continue to be carried.  I would ask that we put each of ourselves in the position of someone who has served time.  How would you like to be received?  We don’t quite get the sense of warmth from being justified that we do from being adopted.

This is not to deny that God’s justifying us is an act of love, or that God’s adopting us is done without regard to what is just.  It is simply to highlight the different perspectives of what has happened in Christ, and I should add, what continues to happen in Christ.

“When the fullness of time had come.”  When the time was just right.  That is how the passage begins.  The Greek (πληρωμα, plērōma) means “make replete, fulfill, accomplish.”  When the stage was set, this grandest of all plays began.

We might think of stories in which a scruffy wandering youngster is taken into the king’s court and raised as part of the royal household.  The Bible even has examples similar to this.  We can point to Joseph and Moses.  After years of imprisonment, Joseph, who has become known for his interpretation of dreams, is brought to the Pharaoh and deciphers his dream.  Long story short, Joseph is given the position of prime minister, or something equivalent to that.

Moses’ mother hid him among the reeds of the river, afraid that he might be killed.  It was not lost on the Egyptians that the Hebrew population was reproducing more quickly than they were.  The decision was made to dispatch the baby boys.  Thus, the decision of Moses’ mother to conceal him.  As it happened, the daughter of the Pharaoh found him and took him as her own.

We might think of “My Fair Lady” in which the illiterate flower girl, though not adopted in the strict sense, receives the proper care and attention, and blooms into an articulate and beautiful young woman.  (“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!”)

There is something about adoption that is noble and calls forth the best in us.  Remember the doggies and the kitty cats!

For me, the imagery of adoption is especially meaningful, because I was adopted as an infant.  Once in a great while, someone asked what it felt like to be unwanted.  Precisely because I was adopted, while growing up, I never questioned whether or not I was wanted.  I knew that I had been chosen, and I knew that my parents had to go through a lot of screening and jumping through hoops as a result of that choice.

On a side note, in February 2018, I was located by my birth mother.

Here’s the thumbnail version.  I received a letter in the mail from the Children’s Home Society in Florida, verifying they had the right person.  Skipping through all the details of the process, we linked up and starting doing Skype and Zoom calls.  I was introduced to my half-brother and half-sister.  The father wasn’t in the picture.  He had taken off back when she was a teenager.  She told me she has thought about me every day of her life, wondering what became of her firstborn son.

She, with my sister and her daughter, visited us in September of that year, and Banu and I have been to Pensacola twice now.  The relationship has continued to evolve.

So I think I’ve always had, even if subconsciously, some sense of what it means to be chosen by God.  I have had the sense of being brought into a family, into a way of life.  Clearly, my experience has been my own.  Everyone who has had the sense of being chosen has their own story.

God, by adopting us into the family, invites us to realize our full potential.  That’s a note of great joy—and great concern.  I think there’s no greater challenge than realizing one’s full potential.  There are many forces working against that—forces outside us and forces inside us.  Among those many internal forces is sloth.

Wendy Wasserstein has spoken on its effect on our potential.[2]  “When you achieve true slothdom,” she says, “you have no desire for the world to change.  True sloths are not revolutionaries…  Sloths are neither angry nor hopeful.  They are not even anarchists.  Anarchy takes too much work.  Sloths are the lazy guardians at the gate of the status quo…

“Whether you’re a traditional sloth or a New Age übersloth, we are all looking at the possibility of real thought, and rejecting it.  Better to fall into line than to question the [party line].”

There’s a disturbing trend in America that’s taken on a life of its own.  Actually it is happening in countries all around the world.  It involves being “cancelled.”  That is, being censored or shamed or denied employment due to saying or writing the wrong thing.  Really, it tends happen anytime an authoritarian mindset sets in.

I have noticed something similar to that myself.  People who once were critical of big pharma and censorship, people I once considered to be philosophical allies, have almost done a 180 degree turn.  And I must say it’s been during these past years of Covid.  Perhaps Covid simply exposed fissures that were already there.

Owen Edwards, in language reminiscent of science fiction, comments on our “[drifting] toward our digital dream.”[3]  The longer we stay plugged in—to the internet, to our cell phones, to television, whatever—the less time we have for real world, real time, face-to-face interaction.  And the lockdowns (sorry to keep harping on this) only reinforced that trend.

I hope we can take to heart the warning about being “lazy guardians at the gate of the status quo.”  Something I would like to highlight is this: never be satisfied.  That is, never stop asking questions, keep stretching yourselves, doing your own research.

For years I’ve had a cartoon I always put on the wall. It’s one done by Ashleigh Brilliant.  It features a fellow who’s wearing glasses not properly positioned on his face; they’re slanted.  There’s a caption stating, “Nothing is beyond question—and you can take my word for it.”  So friends, don’t take my word for it; check things out for yourselves.

Despite all that confusion and nonsense, verse 6 tells us because we’ve been adopted, “because [we] are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, ‘Abba!  Father!’”  That Spirit recognizes and calls out to the Father.  We are energized from within toward our God-given potential, which I noted earlier is no easy task.  The good news is that God refuses to leave us alone.

We need to bear in mind that the Spirit who recognizes the Father isn’t a spirit of private revelation.  This Spirit is the one who teaches us our growth is tied to the rest of the family.  Sometimes that means doing stuff we don’t want to.  We try to move heaven and earth to avoid it.  But it also means experiencing life more deeply than we possibly could alone.  The spirit of adoption, the Spirit that sounds the cry of “Abba, Father” deep within—this is the Spirit that renews us in the family likeness.

I should say the idea of “family likeness” is contingent on many factors.  For example, you know the promises many businesses make.  “At Bubba’s, we treat you like family.”  Bubba’s promise may or may not be a good thing.

I don’t have to tell you families are tricky.  Families are the source of joy and sorrow, affirmation and rejection, pride and embarrassment.  Family is where we hear, “Nice job.  Nice job.”  Family is where we hear, “Well, you screwed up again.”

Another effect of the lockdowns was something quite horrendous for some people.  For some, home doesn’t feel like home.  For some, home is not a safe place.  Home is a place of neglect, of violence, of perversion.  A lockdown really does feel like prison.

The perfect image of family is the Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Each member plays a role in the intertwining of selfless love.  Each one looks out for the other.  They all say, “I’ve got your back.”  It’s an endless circle of support.  It’s the perfect place to hear, “We treat you like family.”

It’s a family who cares.  It’s a family who cares about others.  When something horrible happens, like a horrific earthquake, they reach out and ask, “How is your family?”

So—what of all this?  What does our adoption mean?  The passage ends in verse 7 by saying that we have become heirs.  No longer slaves, we have become adopted children, and so, heirs to what God has in store.

We accept the privileges and responsibilities that come with membership in the family.  We seek to find our place, our role, in the family.

We have been adopted.

[1] winfieldeastsidebaptistchurch.podbean.com/e/knowing-god-by-j-i-packer-sons-of-god-chapter-19-part-1/

[2] in Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me (New York: Riverhead Books, 2008), 326.

[3] in Norris, 325.

A couple of weeks ago, Banu and I went to a restaurant that was really busy.  They must have been understaffed, because the fellow serving as host was running around, trying to see if there were any open tables.  He was asking people if they didn’t mind waiting ten or fifteen minutes.  (We were debating whether or not to stay.)  Meanwhile, more folks were walking in the door.  It was getting a bit crowded.

He did all of this with good humor.  It was service with a smile, as opposed to service with a snarl.  I must confess, after a little while of that, my service would probably be the latter.

Chapters 15 to 17 in Exodus contain the so-called “grumbling” or “murmuring” stories.  At the end of chapter 15, the people complain to Moses because they can only find bitter water.  In chapter 16, the problem is hunger.[1]  In the next chapter, the trouble will again be thirst.

I think we can understand how Moses and Aaron feel.  They didn’t sign up for this job; it was thrust upon them!  More than anyone else, it’s Moses who’s catching the flak.  By the time we get to chapter 17, it seems clear that he’s nearing his breaking point.

Moses says to them, “Why do you quarrel with me?  Why do you test the Lord?” (17:2).  It is interesting how he nicely identifies himself with the divine, but then, why shouldn’t he?  Moses then turns on the one who drafted him into this business, crying out to the Lord, “What shall I do with this people?  They are almost ready to stone me” (v. 4).

There is also a rather extreme—and somewhat irrational—longing for the good old days.

In 16:3, we hear, “The Israelites said to [Moses and Aaron], ‘If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the pots of meat and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.’”  They had an all-you-can-eat buffet, even if it wasn’t vegetarian friendly!

I like the way Eugene Peterson put it in The Message: “Why didn’t God let us die in comfort in Egypt where we had lamb stew and all the bread we could eat?”  It sounds like the taste of slavery was “mmm mmm good!”

And please correct me if I’m wrong, but it also sounds like they’re accusing Moses of actually planning their hardship!  But maybe we can see that shouldn’t be a completely unexpected response.  When people are beaten down and living in misery, they (or we) can lash out, even at those working for good.

I’ve sometimes seen interviews of Russians who express a longing for the days of the Soviet Union.  Back then, at least their jobs were guaranteed.  In times of economic insecurity, political freedom may seem like a luxury.  When there’s rampant crime and corruption, it’s easy to forget the fear that comes with a police state.

It can be easy to forget that the “good old days” weren’t really so good when we were living them.  We tend to romanticize the past.  And we should note the “good old days” are on a sliding scale.  Depending on the color of one’s skin, one’s gender, the accent of one’s speech, the good old days might not be remembered so fondly.

Please understand, I don’t want to give the impression that, in and of itself, there’s a problem with yearning for the past.  It’s normal.  I’m now old enough to experience something of that myself.  I think I began noticing it when I heard athletes who were my age being described as at the end of their careers!

Yearning for the past—indeed, a past that never was—becomes a problem when it takes us from where we need to be.  It’s a problem when it becomes destructive.

This “grumbling” or “murmuring” story is about something more fundamental than idealizing bygone days; it’s about more than rewriting history.  It’s not about the Egyptians treating their slaves to fictitious banquets!  It’s about the way it expresses itself.  It speaks to the corrosive effect of grumbling on the community, on the church.  That’s the danger this story reveals.

St. Benedict who lived in the 5th and early 6th centuries, wrote, “If disciples obey grudgingly and grumble, not only aloud but also in their hearts, then, even though the order is carried out, their actions will not be accepted with favor by God, who sees that they are grumbling in their hearts.”[2]  This was written for Benedictine monastics, but it clearly can apply to anyone of faith.

Sister Joan Chittister makes this relevant for all of us.  In her book, The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages, she writes, “It is community that enables us both to live the Christian life and to learn from it.  Human growth is gradual, Benedict knows—the grumblers and defiant are to be warned about their behavior twice privately—but grow we must.” (59)  The bit about two private warnings is a reference to Matthew 18, where Jesus speaks about brothers and sisters who sin against us.

She continues, “Otherwise those who do not honor the community, those in fact who sin against the development of community in the worst possible way, by consistent complaining, constant resistance, or outright rebellion, must be corrected for it.”  It’s not fighting or theft that she highlights as the “worst possible” sin against fostering community—it’s constant complaining!

It should be pointed out we’re not talking about people who are in really dire straits.  This isn’t about people who suffer from serious mental illness; it’s not about people who are tortured.  No, this is something willful.  The “worst possible” sin Chittister refers to is a decision.  It’s a decision that throws a monkey wrench into the works.

It’s noted, “We come to the meetings…or go through the motions of being part of the community or part of the family…but there is no truth in us and we weigh the group down with our complainings.  We become a living lamentation.  We become a lump of spiritual cement around the neck of the group.”

It’s important to understand.  Grumbling and gossiping are sinful, pure and simple.  Going behind people’s backs and bad mouthing them is sin.

There’s something else about the past.  We can carry grudges from the past.  A grudge is a heavy weight to lug around.  It has a corrosive effect on our soul.  Fortunately, Jesus asks us to cast our burdens on him; his yoke is easy, his burden is light.  Jesus breaks the chains of the past.

I want to include a reference from our Presbyterian Book of Order.  It speaks of “The Ministry of Members.” (G-1.0304)  It’s helpful to consider this as we ponder grumbling and murmuring.

“Membership in the Church of Jesus Christ is a joy and a privilege.  It is also a commitment to participate in Christ’s mission.  A faithful member bears witness to God’s love and grace and promises to be involved responsibly in the ministry of Christ’s Church.  Such involvement includes:

“proclaiming the good news in word and deed, taking part in the common life and worship of a congregation, lifting one another up in prayer, … studying Scripture and the issues of Christian faith and life, supporting the ministry of the church through the giving of money, time, and talents, demonstrating a new quality of life within and through the church…  and reviewing and evaluating regularly the integrity of one’s membership, and considering ways in which one’s participation in the worship and service of the church may be increased and made more meaningful.”

That’s quite a list, and I didn’t mention all of it!  And to be sure, there are some qualities we display better than others.

Returning to our story, there is something to notice.  Even though the Israelites are griping at Moses, there’s no mention of reprimand from God, at least not immediately.  Okay, so when you were slaves in Egypt you could eat meat and bread to your hearts’ content?  Really?  Well, here comes a flock of quail.  And in the morning, you’ll have more than enough bread!

The manna is the bread from heaven.  Verse 15 says, “When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, ‘What is it?’  For they did not know what it was.  Moses said to them, ‘It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.”  The Hebrew word for manna means, “What is it?”

Joan Chittister, who I mentioned earlier, tells a story I’ll paraphrase regarding a student asking the teacher about enlightenment, about wisdom. (178)  (I should warn you this may sound like a comedy routine!)

The student asks where wisdom, where enlightenment, can be found.  “Here,” the teacher replies.  “When will it happen?”  “It is happening right now.”

“Then why don’t I experience it?”  “Because you do not look.”

“What should I look for?”  “Nothing.  Just look.”

“At what?”  “Anything your eyes alight upon.”

“Must I look in a special kind of way?”  “No.  The ordinary way will do.”

“But don’t I always look the ordinary way?”  “No.  You don’t.”

“Well, why not?”  “Because to look you must be here.  You’re mostly somewhere else.”

(We might think of Jesus saying, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand.”)

[www.etsy.com/listing/190021236/out-of-the-abundance-of-the-heart-the]

Friends, that’s us!  We spend a great deal, if not the majority, of our lives mostly somewhere else.  When we’re grumbling and murmuring, we aren’t present to what God is doing—right here, right now.  The bread of heaven is made available; we need only accept it.

Jesus said, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

[1] http://bible.oremus.org/?ql=532276484

[2] https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/82414.The_Rule_of_Benedict

I want to begin with a story about Ayn Rand, or rather, my time as an avid reader of her books.  This was mainly when I was a freshman in college.

First of all, let me give you an idea of who she was.  Ayn Rand was born in Russia in 1905 and moved to America as a young woman.  She died in 1982.

She wrote books of fiction primarily.  She believed selfishness is a noble virtue.  We are not each other’s keeper.  It’s true only to the extent it serves our own self-interest.  The same can be said of charity.  Those receiving charity should be worthy of it.

Government should be as small as possible, for example, there should be no oversight for worker safety, protection of the environment, etc.  That is to be left solely in private hands, to business.  Also, reason alone gives direction for life.  No faith, no poetic insight, no feelings should be used.  To say she was no fan of the church is putting it mildly.

That is an admittedly very quick and, no doubt at some points, imprecise picture of her.  Having said that, as a semi-disciple of hers, I often found myself thinking, “What would Ayn Rand do?”  I was channeling my thoughts along paths she laid out.  I had fenced myself in.

To show how ridiculous I had become, one day I was with some friends, eating lunch in the cafeteria.  I had my copy of Atlas Shrugged, one of her best-known books.  Pushing the book over to one of my companions, I only half-jokingly asked him to “read us some scripture.”

I really wasn’t ascribing some divine origin to Rand’s work (which actually would have driven her nuts), but it does show how straitjacketed my thinking had turned out to be.  In a sense, I fell prey to what the apostle Paul says in 2 Corinthians, “the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life” (3:6).  He is referring specifically to the law of Moses (at least, how it was often interpreted), but it can also apply to any rigid, freedom-restricting rules to live by.

(By the way, my infatuation with the writing of Ayn Rand began to fade about a year later.  My conscience started bothering me!)

Regarding our scripture text, it’s known that Paul wrote several letters to the church in Corinth.  In 1 Corinthians, he mentions a letter he wrote previously (5:9).  Then we have the letter we call 1 Corinthians.  In 2 Corinthians, he speaks of a painful letter (2:3-4, 9, 7:8, 12).  He wanted to address some troublesome issues in the church.  The letter had a severe tone; he said he wrote “out of much distress and anguish of heart and with many tears” (2:4).  And now, we have the letter known to us as 2 Corinthians.

We pick up Paul’s discussion right after he refers to the parade of “peddlers of God’s word” (2:17), preachers and teachers who have been performing with their dog and pony shows.  He asks if the folks in Corinth want him and his companions to present letters of recommendation.  Do they need someone to vouch for them?  They should have checked out those other characters.

Paul says, “I’ll tell you who vouches for us: the Spirit of God.”  He denies that they are “competent of ourselves to claim anything as coming from us; our competence is from God” (3:5).  He says they can’t take credit for anything.  Everything is only due to God.

The apostle sets the stage with the glowing face of Moses, who had gone up the mountain to meet the Lord.  This was when Moses received the big ten, which were literally engraved in stone.  Being in the presence of God had an illuminating effect on Moses.  He was beaming!

I’ll wager none of us have had that experience.  We speak of someone lighting up a room when they enter.  This might be taking it too far.

The people would agree with that.  When Moses came down from the mountain, tablets in hand, he could tell by the reaction, the looks on people’s faces, that they were totally freaked out.  Moses still didn’t know why.  Was there something on his clothes?  Did he smell bad?

Eventually, he figured it out.  After he finished laying down the law, Moses took a veil and covered his face.  When he would go inside his tent, he would remove the veil.  If he had a message from the Lord, he would go outside and deliver it, and then to reduce the level of freaking out, he would replace the veil.  He would cover up his shining face.

Today is the Transfiguration of the Lord, when Jesus also made a trip up the mountain, and his entire body glowed.  Maybe we can see how this story of Moses is the Old Testament scripture for today.  Still, Paul speaks of the shining face of Moses as a glory, to be sure, but a glory that is fading.

Scott Hoezee, who teaches at Calvin Seminary, speaks to that point of a glory fading away.  “Great though the reception of the Law had been,” he says, “and wonderful though it was that Israel really was now a nation (in fulfillment of what God had promised in Genesis 12 to Abram), the fact is this was not the end of the line. This was not the end-all and be-all of God’s ultimate plans for this fallen creation.”[1]

Paul makes a rather stark statement about the law of Moses.  He labels it “the ministry of death” (v. 7).  It’s not that he hates the law.  It’s not like he’s saying to avoid it, or it will kill you.  In another place, he speaks glowingly of it.  He says, “the law is holy, and the commandment is holy and just and good” (Ro 7:12).

In fact, the word translated as “law” (תּוֺרׇה, torah) could be easily rendered as “direction” or “instruction.”  That fits right in with Paul’s description in Galatians as the law being a tutor or a schoolmaster, guiding us to Christ (Ga 3:24).

He’s exaggerating to point out that the law is powerless to make us righteous.  It’s true: the people of Israel couldn’t bear to look at Moses’ face because it was so glorious.  Yet, the apostle asks, “how much more will the ministry of the Spirit come in glory?” (v. 8).

If the term “ministry of death” was stark, we can see Paul apparently piling it on in the next few verses.  His analysis, his perspective, of the people of Israel is “their minds were hardened.  Indeed, to this very day, when they hear the reading of the old covenant, that same veil is still there, since only in Christ is it set aside” (v. 14).  He goes even farther.  “Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds; but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed” (vv. 15-16).

It sounds like there is a Christian triumphalism going on.  Those poor foolish Jews—no, those bad Jews—need to be taken in hand.  Certainly, that’s one way this has been interpreted.  And when the Jewish people have been taken in hand, it has rarely been a tender hand!  So, I would be delinquent if I didn’t address how this passage has been misused through the centuries.

A veil lies over our minds if we fall into an anti-Jewish reading of the text.  It’s not unlike the veil I placed on my mind by blindly following the nonsense of Ayn Rand.  (With apologies to Ayn Rand fans!)

Back to Paul’s point in bringing this up, he had the perfect example of removing the veil, of having one’s eyes opened—himself!  On the road to Damascus, he literally saw the light.  His startling and dramatic language (some might say overly dramatic) is meant to highlight the awesomely dramatic difference between the law and Christ.

Our friend Scott Hoezee applies this to us.  “The only reason you keep looking to the Law as the source of your salvation is because your heart still has a veil over it—you’re not seeing clearly.”  Can we see how we allow Law to govern us?  We follow a method.  We have some strict and inflexible guidelines as we run through the maze of life, like rats in a lab.

God wants to unlock us.

We are reminded that “far from having to then turn back to our own sorry reflections in the mirror only to be reminded how far short we fall of the glory of God in our own lives—the glory of Christ is contagious!”  I want that contagion to infect me.  I don’t want my immune system to protect me from that contagious glory.

The apostle encourages us, saying, “all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit” (v. 18).

“From one degree of glory to another.”  To experience ever-increasing glory: only unlocked and unveiled children of God can enjoy that privilege.  Only they can enjoy that grace.

A few moments ago, I said how I would be delinquent if I didn’t acknowledge the ways in which our scripture has been twisted to stir up hostility toward the Jewish people.  As I’ve sometimes noted, events happen that just can’t be ignored.  The Russian invasion of Ukraine with its sadness and horror is one of those events.

Paul has spoken of minds being veiled, minds being hardened.  He has spoken of the ministry of death.  I dare say those have been on vivid and terrifying display these past days.

Ultimately, however, what we have seen is a demonstration of cowardice.  Vladimir Putin’s choices are not an exhibition of strength of spirit, but rather a weakness of character.

Clearly, he isn’t alone on the world stage in choosing to follow a Law that enslaves, a letter that kills.  He isn’t alone in that among the entire human race.  I know none of us is plotting the invasion of another country!  Still, at some level, as said before, God wants to unlock us.  We are in need of that holy contagion; we need to be infected with the glory of Christ.  The Lord gives us the ability to be of service to each other, not of laying down oppressive rules, but of turning to Christ, who sets the captives free.

We can take heart, knowing that “the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” (v. 17).

[1] cepreaching.org/commentary/2016-02-01/2-corinthians-312-42/

I sometimes speak of particular psalms as works of art, that is, as real works of art!  Psalm 91 is certainly in that category.  It has so many rich and vivid images.  “You will not fear the terror of the night…  or the destruction that wastes at noonday…  You will tread on the lion and the adder, the young lion and the serpent you will trample under foot.”  But we’ll get to all those in a few minutes!

It also has a personal connection for me.  Psalm 91 is my mom’s favorite.  She has spoken of how she sometimes inserts her name where the appropriate pronoun appears.  For example, “Ida will not fear the terror of the night.”  “The young lion and the serpent Ida will trample under foot.”  (Banu reminded me it is also her favorite, which she recites and does the same thing my mom does.)

I can speak of a quite intimate moment.  It happened when she was about to have surgery to implant a pacemaker.  Banu and I were in the hospital with her just before they were ready to roll her away and knock her out.  We prayed this psalm with her.  As you go through verse after verse, the promises of the Lord keep adding up, until we get to the end, “With long life I will satisfy them, and show them my salvation” (v. 16).

This is a song, or a poem, of trust and confidence.  The writer is assured of victory, of obstacles overcome.  This assurance isn’t based on anything within herself or himself.  This assurance, this conviction, is based on living “in the shelter of the Most High, [abiding] in the shadow of the Almighty (v. 1).

The word “Almighty” comes from the Hebrew שַׁדַּי (shaday) Shaddai.

It’s like the Amy Grant song, which was written by Michael Card and John Thompson.  “El-Shaddai, El-Shaddai [“God Almighty”] / El-Elyon na Adonai [“God in the highest, Oh, Lord”] / Age to age, You’re still the same / By the power of the name.”  And of course, the song goes on.  There’s a good case of a psalm inspiring a work of art.

Shaddai is the “self-sufficient one,” the “one who suffices.”  That’s a shelter impervious to the storms of life.  One who needs nothing else.

And yes, our psalmist, our poet, has seen some tough times.  There’s been the threat of being snared by the fowler—the danger of being trapped, like a bird rendered helpless.[1]  Who knows what snares, what traps, have lain in wait?  What has been escaped?

“Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; ‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”

Who can speak of the “deadly pestilence”?  Our writer has been set free—has been protected—from that which would leave desolation in its wake.

We’re told by Gregg Braden the ancient rabbis held that “Psalm 91 protected the prophet Moses the second time he climbed to the top of Mount Sinai, which is when he received the Ten Commandments.  [He] was enveloped during his ascent by a mysterious cloud of unknown substance of unknown origin.  The cloud became so dense that he could no longer see ahead of him, nor could he be seen by those watching him from below the cloud…”[2]

“It’s during this time of uncertainty and fear that Moses composed and recited Psalm 91 for his protection.  For reasons that he attributed to the power of this prayer, Moses, in fact, was protected.”[3]  While it’s not likely Moses actually wrote the psalm, we can see how it was regarded to have served as a shield.

I spoke of rich and vivid images, including verses 5 and 6.  There is defense from dangers of night and day.  No “terror of the night,” no “arrow that flies by day” will bring harm.  In verse 6, we once again hear about pestilence.  The psalmist is told to not fear “the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or the destruction that wastes at noonday.”

The destruction that wastes at noonday.  Many have seen that as a reference to “the noonday devil” or “noonday demon.”  Now that’s a colorful character.  Throughout the centuries of church history, it became associated with one of the seven deadly sins, the one known as sloth.  We might be tempted to laugh it off as mere laziness, but it is more than that.  It is the condition called acedia.  In Latin, it literally means “lack of care.”  It is a refusal to act on the demands of love.

Andrew Michel is a professor of psychiatry at Vanderbilt University in Nashville.  He says, “As an absence of care, acedia can seem harmless enough since it is not an observable…offense.  However, whenever there is an absence of care in the world, an absence of intentionality, then someone is left lacking—an elderly person unattended, a starving person unfed, a woman battered, a child uneducated, a life’s gifting uncelebrated.”[4]  It might seem the only person harmed is the one afflicted by it, but as we see, it spreads outward.  It is not a victimless crime!

“Therefore,” Michel continues, “acedia is difficult to notice because it [deals with] an absence.  Perhaps this is the reason it has been associated with the Psalmist’s noonday demon, who seems to terrorize his prey in the light of day, not fearing being seen or noticed.”[5]

I’ve taken some time with this, because “the destruction that wastes at noonday” doesn’t have to be something dramatic.  In fact, it can hide in the ordinary run of the day.  We get so busy with busy-ness that we demonstrate the prayer of confession of sin in which we ask forgiveness, not so much for “what we have done,” but “what we have left undone.”

But there’s good news!  As Michel contemplated studying acedia, he feared it “might turn into turn into a project in moralizing.  Yet, to my delight,” he realized, “as I have explored the richness of acedia, I have paradoxically discovered that the concept is refreshing and illuminating.  Rather than heaping judgment on a person, the recognition of acedia offers an invitation to abundant living.”[6]  The richness of acedia, the noonday devil: that sounds like a contradiction in terms!  Refreshing?  Illuminating?

Still, that is the hope the psalmist holds out.  Fear not.

The promises of deliverance continue.  Consider verses 9 and 10: “Because you have made the Lord your refuge, the Most High your dwelling place, no evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent.”  The word for “scourge” is נֶגַצ (nega`).  It has several nuances, but probably the best one here is “contagion.”  That could include the contagion of acedia, that noonday devil.

The promise here is that “contagion…shall not approach into your tent.”  It shall not rest in your home, because the Lord is in your home.  Something we’ve become familiar with in this past year and a half is indeed contagion.  It has swept through the land; it has swept through the world.  It has visited so many of us. I wonder, though, is there a difference between visiting and taking up residence?  Moving in?

Assuming we take verse 10 literally, at some level, we have no control over being visited by the contagion of Covid, or any other contagion for that matter.  Of course, we take precautions, but there are no firm guarantees in this fallen, disease-infested world.  (I guess I’m scaring all the germophobes!)

Still, as I just suggested, maybe there’s a difference between having a visitor and having someone walk in unannounced, go to the fridge, grab a snack, plop down in your favorite chair, and put their feet up.

So unfortunately, we have become familiar with contagion.  It seems to have brought to the surface some disconcerting realities.

I’ve been reading a book on Dietrich Bonhoeffer written by Eric Metaxas.  Bonhoeffer, as you may or may not know, was a church leader in Germany during the time of the Nazis.  His best-known book was The Cost of Discipleship.  He was arrested for his anti-government activities, including participation in the plot to assassinate Hitler.  He was imprisoned for two years.  Bonhoeffer was executed just a matter of days before the surrender of the Nazis.

In the book, Metaxas quotes Bonhoeffer on his thoughts about what the war has revealed.  I would suggest in the place of the word “war,” we substitute the word “contagion.”  (It’s kind of like what Banu and my mother have done with Psalm 91, inserting their names in various places.)  Here are some of his reflections on the realities that World War 2 revealed:

“It is not war [contagion] that first brings death, not war that first invents the pains and torments of human bodies and souls…  It is not war that first makes our existence so utterly precarious and renders human beings powerless, forcing them to watch their desires and plans being thwarted and destroyed…  But war makes all of this, which existed already apart from it and before it, vast and unavoidable to us who would gladly prefer to overlook it all.”[7]

Does it seem like I’m overstating the effects of the pandemic by comparing it to war?  Perhaps, but I don’t think it’s by very much.  Maybe I’m alone in this, but I think these past months have revealed how crazy we make each other!  Lengthy traumatic experiences have a way of doing that.

Going along with Bonhoeffer, those realities and forces were already there.  The divisions, the shaming of each other, the recriminations…  Covid has given all that an elevated platform.  Especially with the forced lockdowns, it has exposed in detail the economic inequality, the imbalanced opportunities for education, the scourge (yes, the contagion) of domestic violence.

Hasn’t this talk of the noonday devil and contagion been fun?  Fortunately, there’s more to the story.

To those who love the Lord and know his name, these vows are made: “When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them” (v. 15).  The word for “honor” כָּבַד (kabad) is the same word for “glorify.”  Imagine that: the Lord will glorify us!  Plagues and contagions might surround us.  That includes the self-imposed contagion of acedia, of sloth—the one that has us saying “no” to love, “no” to the Spirit.

God is ever present, wanting so badly to glorify us.  Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ says, “No contagion will harm you.”  Glory be to God in the highest!

[1] also in Psalm 124:7

[2] Gregg Braden, The Wisdom Codes (Carlsbad, CA: Hay House, 2020), Kindle edition, Chapter 1, section 2, paragraph 1.

[3] Braden, 1.2.2

[4] Andrew A. Michel, “In Pursuit of Sophia: A Pilgrimage with Depression and Acedia,” Acedia: Christian Reflection (Waco, TX: Baylor University, 2013), 29-30.

[5] Michel, 30.

[6] Michel, 29.

[7] Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Prophet, Martyr, Spy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2010), 373.

Sometimes I’m inspired by a song when thinking and praying about a sermon topic.  Recently there was a scripture text about people reaching a conclusion about Jesus.  He was out of his mind.  He had lost his marbles.  The song “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince kept going through my head.  Even among those familiar with it, many don’t realize that song is actually about overcoming the temptations of the devil.

Last month there was the Creative Christianity Summit.  Artists and worship leaders from around the globe participated.  There was a sermon / teaching series on the tabernacle of the Israelites.  It was done by Rev. Paul Blackham, who lives in London.  I’ll go into detail on what he said in a few minutes.

The song that really captured me—that captivated me—was the hymn, “Are You Washed in the Blood?”  I must confess, it’s never been one of my favorite hymns.  I’m not terribly fond of its tune.  I apologize to those who do like it.  As for the lyrics, to my mind, they lack a certain theological depth.

However, Blackham’s presentation gave me a new appreciation for the musical question, “Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?”  I discovered a solid Old Testament foundation for it.  Blackham spoke of the tabernacle (and we’ll take a quick look at it) as a model of the universe.  But again, it was that image of being washed in the blood which was my main takeaway.

Now, I’m warming up to the song!

As I just said, Blackham’s presentation dealt with the tabernacle.  It served as a portable temple when the Israelites traveled through the wilderness after fleeing the slavery of Egypt.  Every time they struck camp, the sacred tent and its accoutrements were packed up and taken along for the ride.  The tabernacle is described in Exodus, beginning with chapter 25.  I have included a chart of it which I will reference.

The entrance to the outer courtyard was always facing east.  The first stop was the altar of burnt offerings; that’s where the animals were sacrificed.  I want to circle around to the bronze basin or bronze laver (a container of water for washing), so I’ll mention the rest of the tabernacle beforehand.

We next enter what was called the Holy Place, the first part of the inner court.  The priests conducted rituals, using the golden lampstand, the table of showbread, and the altar of incense.  We then continue into the Most Holy Place, the Holy of Holies, which deserves some explanation.

This was the most sacred place; it was considered to be the dwelling place of God.  The Holy of Holies was a room separated from the rest of the inner court by a veil.  Only the high priest could enter, and that was only one time per year, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  The Holy of Holies contained the ark of the covenant, which according to the scriptures, held a golden jar of manna, Aaron’s staff that budded (Nu 17), and the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.  The high priest would go into the tiny room, sprinkle blood from the sacrifice, and burn incense, thereby receiving atonement from God for his sin and for the sin of the nation.

According to Harrison Ford in the movie, Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, one dare not gaze into it.  Those foolhardy enough to do so might suffer the fate of the impertinent Nazis and have one’s face completely melt off.[1]

Now, back to that bronze basin.

Slaughtering all those animals was a messy business.  I have never slaughtered an animal myself, but anyone who has can no doubt attest to what I’m saying.  With blood and guts spilling all over the place, a provision had to be made for cleanup.  We might need a large container filled with water.

Exodus 30:19 says, “with the water Aaron and his sons shall wash their hands and their feet.”  To be sure, this is about more than personal hygiene.  It’s about more than “cleanliness is next to godliness.”  Or is it?  There is the reality that drawing near to God meant purification on the part of the priests.  There is a profound ceremonial aspect to the washing.  And as they say, this is not a negotiation.

If you don’t believe me, notice the repeated warning: “so that they may not die” (vv. 20-21).  So clean up your act, or else.

As our friend Paul Blackham noted, the water became red with blood.  The priests were literally washed in the blood.

(That song, “Are You Washed in the Blood?” has been running through my mind for the past few weeks.  People call that an earworm—a piece of music or song, like an actual earworm, that burrows into your ear and infects you.  The Germans came up with the term.  Maybe someone couldn’t get Beethoven out of their head!)

“Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin, / And be washed in the blood of the Lamb; / There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean, / O be washed in the blood of the Lamb!”

We see that image brought into the New Testament, where we’re no longer talking about the blood of an animal.  Rather, the picture is now the blood of the crucified Jesus.  It probably isn’t more clearly illustrated than in chapter 7 of the book of Revelation.

That book is filled with visions given to John.  (This is likely John the apostle, but we’re not totally sure.)  We start with verse 9, which says, “After this, I looked.”  What has just happened is John’s vision of twelve thousand people from each of the twelve tribes of Israel.  They have been sealed as protection from damage about to be unleashed on the earth.  As we see in verse 9, his vision has been expanded.

He sees people from every nation, speaking every language.  John sees a gathering too vast to be numbered, all dressed in white, waving palm branches, singing praises before the throne of God.

Can you recall how large a crowd you’ve been part of, with everyone singing hymns?  Banu and I have gone to one General Assembly; it was in 2004 in Columbus, Ohio.  Being in a worship service with hundreds of people—and worshipping together in spirit—is an experience like none other.  Lifting up one’s voice in a multitude like that drowns everything in praise.  It doesn’t matter if you can’t carry a tune.  The Lord is the best audience!

Notice who’s right next to the throne.  It is the Lamb, slain for us.  What an image this is: the crucified and now triumphant Christ pictured as an innocent, helpless critter.  But there’s more to it than that.  The Greek word here (αρνιον, arnion) is translated as “lamb.”  However, it is literally “lambkin,” a little lamb.  A little itty-bitty lamb.

Remember Mary, who had a little lamb, a little lamb, a little lamb?  She had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow.

I do have a point in mentioning the nursery rhyme.  The book of Revelation was probably written in the 90s.  The Roman emperor then was Domitian, the self-proclaimed “Lord and God” Domitian.  This was a fellow with some serious self-esteem issues.  Early in his reign, he hadn’t yet begun his plunge into paranoia.  He enjoyed a certain level of popularity.  Descending into a reign of terror definitely took care of that!

We’re not sure to what extent he persecuted the church, but those Christians calling their Lord and Savior “lambkin” made a powerful statement about what was seemingly powerless being the mightiest of all.

We see angels, elders, and the four living creatures worshipping at the throne, and then the question is put to John, “Who are these folks in white, and where did they come from?”  John replies, “I don’t know.”

The secret is revealed.  “These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (v. 14).  Eugene Peterson put it this way: “they’ve washed their robes, scrubbed them clean in the blood of the Lamb” (The Message).  They’ve scrubbed them clean.  I don’t imagine we’ll ever see a laundry detergent company advertising that particular ingredient.  How indeed can blood remove stains?

It’s one thing, as those priests did, to wash your hands in crimson-colored water; it quite another thing to try it with clothing.

Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin.

John is told that they “have come out of the great ordeal.”  The word for “ordeal” (θλιψις, thlipsis) also means “tribulation,” “affliction.”  It has the idea of “pressing together,” of being under “intense pressure.”  Some people think this refers to a certain event or experience.  Others (and I think I would put myself in this category) believe this “ordeal” speaks to life in general.  We all are afflicted by sin.  We all feel the pressures of the world.

The law of Moses says, “The blood is the life” (Dt 12:23).  Washing those robes is washing them with life.  It is washing death away.  When we put on those garments, we put on Christ.  We clothe ourselves with Christ (Ro 13:14, Ga 3:27).  We wrap ourselves with Christ.

What is to become of that multitude without number?

We see their destiny, and it is a glorious one.  “They will hunger no more, and thirst no more.”  “The Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (vv. 16-17).  The Lamb will shepherd the sheep.

There are a number of images that speak of the power of Jesus the Messiah: the miracles he performed, his wisdom, his love, and oh yes, a little thing called the resurrection.  Still, there is power in the blood.  The blood is the life.

[1] www.youtube.com/watch?v=YcR9k8o4I0w

One of my favorite science fiction movies came out in 1999: The Matrix.  For those who don’t know, The Matrix stars Keanu Reeves.  His character’s name is Thomas Anderson, who by day has a job as a computer programmer.  At night, he is a computer hacker who calls himself Neo.  The movie also stars Laurence Fishburne as Morpheus, a legendary hacker who the government has branded a terrorist.

Morpheus contacts Neo, and a meeting is set up.[1]  During a captivating conversation, Morpheus tells him, “What you know you can’t explain, but you feel it.  You’ve felt it your entire life, that there’s something wrong with the world.  You don’t know what it is, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.”  The entire world, everything, is an elaborate computer program, the matrix.

(On a side note, there are some physicists who speculate that our whole universe might be something like a computer program, possibly being run by others.)

Neo undergoes a procedure, and he wakes up to the real world, a desolate wasteland.  To make a long story short, Morpheus teaches Neo how to fight within the program.  He does this because he believes that Neo can liberate everyone from the matrix; he believes he is a kind of messiah.

As they’re sparring, Morpheus shouts at Neo, “What are you waiting for?  You’re faster than this.  Don’t think you are, know you are.  Come on.  Stop trying to hit me and hit me.”  They go back to fighting, and Neo stops his fist just before he hits Morpheus in the face.  “I know what you’re trying to do,” says Neo.  Morpheus responds, “I’m trying to free your mind, Neo.  But I can only show you the door.  You’re the one that has to walk through it.”

Free your mind.  Free your spirit.  I believe that’s a message the apostle Paul is giving the Galatians.  Or maybe the better way of putting it is, “God has freed your mind.  Accept that freedom.  Don’t go back to being a slave.”

Our scripture reading is part of a longer passage that goes back to chapter 3.  There, Paul speaks of the law of Moses as a kind of mentor, a supervisor.  But he also talks about Abraham, who lived hundreds of years before the law was handed down by Moses.  His faith, the faith of Abraham, was based on God’s promise that he would father a nation.  His faith wasn’t based on the law.

The law and the promise do not contradict each other, but with faith, in particular the faith of Christ, the law is transcended.  Old categories become meaningless.  As the apostle says, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.  And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise” (3:28-29).

So with chapter 4, he carries that thought of the law being a supervisor or a disciplinarian by saying that with faith, we grow up.  We become adults.  Paul compares inheritors, while they’re still children, as basically equal to slaves.  They are still under tight restrictions.

There’s something dramatic that happens, something befitting the Christmas season.  Paul says that “when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law” (v. 4).  One might say that’s a verse pregnant with meaning!

Like any other squalling baby, Jesus emerges from the womb of a woman.  And he is born into a family that faithfully observes the Jewish law.

This happens in “the fullness of time.”  That’s when the time, the hour, had finally arrived; it was just the right time.  What does that mean?  In part, we can think of the Jewish faith and culture, with the steadily growing hope and expectation that the Messiah is about to arrive.  That helps explain the bitter disappointment when their would-be Messiah is killed, and the nation is still being ruled by foreigners.

Still, there is something known as the Pax Romana, the Roman peace, with its many beneficial qualities.

For example, it enabled the Roman Empire to build a network of roads.  The Roman peace made travel on those highways much safer.  It’s easier to run an empire if you can put down those pesky local rebellions, as well as offering security against criminal elements.  Another benefit was the flourishing of architecture and the arts.

The ease of travel made possible the spread of the Greek language, which served as a common tongue throughout the Mediterranean.  The translation of the scriptures (what we call the Old Testament) into Greek helped spread the faith of the Jews, the faith in which Jesus was raised, into many different countries.

The work of human beings, the arc of history, usually serves a greater purpose than what we might imagine.  Behind it and through it emerges the fullness of time.

In this fullness of time, the Son has arrived to redeem us, to buy us back, to set us free.  We are now adopted as children of God.  There is no greater freedom.  As with Abraham and Sarah—as with the Galatian church—we have been set free because of the promise of God, not because we’ve been able to obey the law.

But there’s a problem with all of this.  Paul sees it in the Galatians, and honestly, it’s also a problem with us.  There’s something in us that wants to reject freedom.  There’s something in us that doesn’t want our minds to be free—that doesn’t want our spirits to be free.

Let me give you another example from The Matrix.  One of the characters is named Cypher.  He’s tired of life in the real world, with the running and hiding from the machines that maintain the matrix.  He’s tired of its blandness; he longs for the life he used to have—like what we too often have—even though it’s an illusion.

There’s a scene in which he’s sitting in a restaurant with one of the agents: computer programs in human form who are guardians within the matrix.  Cypher is eating a juicy steak.  He admits that the steak isn’t real, but he likes it.  He wants to have his memory wiped and be put back into the matrix.  Cypher wants to reject his freedom and go back to when he was enslaved—provided he doesn’t know he’s a slave.

How appropriate for a guy whose name means “zero”!

So remember, the problem with the Galatians is that there are those among them who still insist they must observe the law, to unwittingly return to slavery.  It applies to both Jewish and Gentile Christians.  They want to go back to what they’ve known.  There is a comfort in hanging on to what gives you the feeling of control.  I certainly understand it!  Freedom can be a scary thing.

The apostle Paul sees even more at stake.  By rejecting their freedom in Christ, they actually are choosing idolatry.  He tells them, “Formerly, when you did not know God, you were enslaved to beings that by nature are not gods” (v. 8).  He’s having trouble understanding what they’re up to.

He continues, “Now, however, that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and beggarly elemental spirits?” (v. 9).  The word for “elemental spirits” is στοιχεια (stoicheia), which has several definitions.  In this case, he’s probably speaking of the rules imposed by those old gods.  Paul is truly exasperated.  He says, “I am afraid that my work for you may have been wasted” (v. 11).  He wonders if he’s just been frittering away his time.

Last month, while speaking of Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians, I noted he congratulates them on how they encourage one other.  How about the Galatians?  They must have an especially praiseworthy attribute.  If they do, the apostle doesn’t mention it.  He has already said, “You foolish Galatians!” (3:1).  Some translations are even harsher.  “You stupid Galatians!  You must have been bewitched.” (Revised English Bible).  Has somebody put you under a spell?  Are you taking crazy pills?

And remember what they want to be enslaved to: “the weak and beggarly elemental spirits,” “those powerless and bankrupt elements.” (New Jerusalem Bible)  They’re playing the role of Cypher from The Matrix!

I wonder, how often do we reject our scary freedom?  How often do we choose those powerless and bankrupt elements?  What are these pitiful, worthless things which we place on the altars of our hearts?  How can those who “have come to know God, or rather to be known by God,” choose slavery to what is nothing?

We so often imitate the Israelites who, having fled the chains of Egypt, berate Moses and long to return (Nu 14:4).

Richard Rohr comments on this business of serving what is nothing.[2]  “Less than a block from where I used to live in downtown Albuquerque, there is a sidewalk where the homeless often sit against the wall to catch the winter sun.  Once I saw fresh graffiti chalked clearly on the pavement in front of the homeless.  It said, ‘I watch how foolishly man guards his nothing—thereby keeping us out.  Truly God is hated here.’”

So again I wonder, what are the nothings to which we so desperately cling?  How do we forget our status as adopted children of God and turn back to slavery?

Soon after being chosen as pope, Francis addressed the Vatican Curia, their governing body.  He listed fifteen diseases that he had noticed among them.[3]  (In doing so, Francis showed himself to be a frank pope.)

One disease is “Spiritual Alzheimer’s”: “a progressive decline of spiritual faculties…, living in a state of absolute dependence on one’s own often imaginary views.  We see this in those who have lost their recollection of their encounter with the Lord…in those who build walls around themselves and who increasingly transform into slaves to the idols they have sculpted with their own hands.”  Francis sees in the Vatican leadership this same forgetfulness of God and turning to slavery that we just looked at.

If we reject the loving freedom of God and turn back to idols, we will inevitably do harm to each other.

Those in Christ have been set free.  To explore that freedom, there are always new doors to open.  But like freedom, opening those doors can be scary.  We might want to stay where we are, circle the wagons, and hold on to what we already know, or perhaps, what we think we know.  We might want to stay behind the walls we’ve built, and not walk through the door into new territory.

We are on the verge of a new year—2021.

Recently during our prayer time, I shared some reflections of gratitude sent by readers of the New York Times.  They were asked to submit a statement of six words, expressing what they were thankful for from this past year.  Over ten thousand replies were received.  Many caught my eye, but here are three I mentioned: “There’s really more kindness than hate.”  “Thankful for sweet potato pie, y’all.”  “I am thankful to be thankful.”

{a scene from Antwone Fisher of gratitude and welcome (the video's aspect ratio might be off)}

A freed mind, a liberated mind, is a grateful mind—it is a grateful spirit.  Having said that, I must also confess there is absolutely no doubt that this past year has brought way more than its share of heartbreak and sorrow.  People all over the globe can attest to that.  We here can attest to that.  Still, as the prophet says, “The people [we who have been] walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned” (Is 9:2).

That is the subtle strength, the peaceful power, of Christmas.  This season is teaching us lessons.  Christ lives within us.  In what fullness of time do we now find ourselves?  May it be a time in which we welcome each other—and the Christ within us—as we together walk into that new freedom.

[1] www.imdb.com/title/tt0133093/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu

[2] https://myemail.constantcontact.com/Richard-Rohr-s-Daily-Meditations--How-Foolishly-We-Guard-Our--Nothing-----Ecumenism----July-8--2013.html?soid=1103098668616&aid=zXdIB1uvLD4

[3] www.washingtonpost.com/news/world/wp/2014/12/22/the-15-ailments-of-the-vatican-curia-according-to-pope-francis/

Stories have come down through the ages about the deaths of heroes and champions.  It is the stuff of legends and sagas.  Tales would be told, and songs would be sung, of their courageous exploits, their daring deeds.  Everyone in the land would be in a state of mourning.  As the time of burial approached, a detachment of servants or soldiers would be selected.  They would be instructed to travel a great distance into the wilderness and bury their departed leader.

Upon their return, they would immediately be slain!  No one was to know the place of burial!

Nothing could be allowed to desecrate the grave, and even more, the memory of the Great One.  It would be solemnly intoned that his like (or on occasion, her like) would never be seen again.

In Deuteronomy 34, Moses climbs the mountain, where he sees the Promised Land.  The Lord tells him, “I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not cross over there” (v. 4).  There is a reason why Moses is forbidden to enter the land; we’ll look at that in a moment.

Continuing the idea of the great leader, we’re told in verses 5 and 6: “Then Moses, the servant of the Lord, died there in the land of Moab, at the Lord’s command.  He was buried in a valley in the land of Moab, opposite Beth-peor, but no one knows his burial place to this day.”  There’s no word on who actually dug the grave.  Maybe it was arranged by an earthquake!

No one is allowed to turn his final resting place into a shrine; it is not to be a place of worship.  After all, that would be out of character for Moses.  In another place, the scripture says, “the man Moses was very humble, more so than anyone else on the face of the earth” (Nu 12:3).  You can’t claim to be humble; that has to be said about you.

All of this speaks as to why Moses isn’t allowed to enter the land.  Soon after leaving Egypt, the people complain of thirst in the wilderness (Ex 17:1-7).  The Lord tells Moses to strike the rock with a stick, and water will flow out.  Later on, the same thing happens; there’s no water, but there is grumbling (Nu 20:2-13).  This time he’s supposed to speak to the rock, but he again whacks it with a club, releasing the water.

This act of disobedience might not seem like a big deal to us, but it does point to a greater concern.  One writer says, “Nobody is irreplaceable…  The message to the community…is that there will be no freelancing in positions of authority.  Leaders are to work within their prescribed roles and not beyond.”[1]  That’s some sage advice for all of us.

To be clear, it’s not like God is smacking Moses down.  God isn’t saying, “You blew it!  Hit the road, Jack!”  After all, verse 10 says, “Never since has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face.”  That’s some very high praise indeed!

I want to focus on Moses and his role when it comes to transition.  Timothy Simpson says, “Before the end, God takes Moses up for a panoramic view, not of where he had been and of what he had accomplished, but where the people were going and where he would not follow.”[2]

As intentional interim pastors, the Presbyterian Church requires at least two weeks of specialized training.  Our first week was in Montreat, North Carolina.  Our second week was in Pittsburgh.  One of the themes at the training was the BFP—beloved former pastor.  This would be someone who had a long tenure.  His or her pastorate would often be considered one of the highlights in the history of the congregation.

Before I go any farther, I should say, as you know, memories of the past are not always good ones!  Sometimes they go the other way.

At the training, a story was told of a pastor who, after leaving a church, moved to the other side of the country.  However, there was a husband and wife determined to track him down.  To put it bluntly, they decided to stalk him.  Upon discovering his new address, they came up with a plan.  They took a frozen fish, allowed it to thaw, put it in a package, and mailed it to him.

What in the world could have been their motivation?  Maybe they felt like he didn’t pass the smell test?  Or perhaps there’s another explanation.  Could it be the couple had a reputation for always carping about something?

Whatever the case, having a rotten fish delivered to someone’s doorstep is hardly a fresh approach to a dispute!

Moses could be thought of as a BFP, a beloved former pastor.  Just as we see in today’s scripture, it is important to do three things: to eulogize, to mourn, and to move on.

A quick word about eulogizing: the word “eulogy” comes from two Greek words which mean “good words.”  To eulogize someone is to “speak well” of them, to praise them.  It is possible to eulogize someone who is still alive; we just don’t often use the word that way.

When remembering a beloved leader, it is entirely appropriate and necessary to eulogize, to celebrate the wonderful things he or she has done.

Look at the way Moses is eulogized.  “Moses was one hundred twenty years old when he died; his sight was unimpaired and his vigor had not abated” (v. 7).  Now that’s what I call aging well!  At the time of death, Moses apparently has the sight and stamina of a young man.  He was ripped.

But that’s not all.  “He was unequaled for all the signs and wonders that the Lord sent him to perform in the land of Egypt…”  And if that’s not enough, “for all the mighty deeds and all the terrifying displays of power that Moses performed in the sight of all Israel” (vv. 11-12).  The memory of Moses inspires more praise, even legendary praise.

If it is important to eulogize, it is also important to mourn.  Mourning is not simply a feeling or an emotion associated with loss.  It is an action; it’s something we actually do.  As you see in the scripture, the people mourned for Moses for thirty days.  That doesn’t mean they were crying 24/7, but that they had certain rituals.

We also have rituals of mourning.  Something we do at the national or state level is fly the flag at half-mast.  And of course, a very familiar ritual is the funeral service.

Rituals of mourning can be very personal: going to a certain place with special meaning, listening to a particular piece of music, preparing a certain dish—the possibilities are endless!

Jesuit writer Stefan Kiechle speaks about mourning in the context of making decisions.  That is, mourn the possibilities and opportunities you did not choose.  They’re gone; you can’t turn back the clock.  It’s what Robert Frost says in his poem, “The Road not Taken.”  While walking in the forest, he comes upon a fork in the road.  He makes his choice, but wonders where the other road would have taken him.  Still, he says, “Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.”

But this also applies when someone beloved has left.  “People frequently overlook this need for mourning.  In the absence of mourning, there will be a tendency to cling for too long” to the departed one.[3]  Failing that, one will likely feel “dissatisfied, indeed restless, without any kind of inner peace.”[4]

We must be able to say goodbye.

Mourning, even if it’s for someone still alive, implies we ourselves have suffered a kind of death.  We have to acknowledge we have suffered a death in order for life to go on—and for a life that, in some mysterious way, can lead to joy.  And perhaps, it can be a joy we have never known.

In John 12, Jesus says “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (v. 24).  It is necessary, so to speak, for the grain to suffer a kind of death in order to keep living.  And it is a life that is fruitful, “it bears much fruit.”

Giving the gift of a good goodbye is a key part of moving on.  That’s the third part of my sermon title: eulogize, mourn, and move on.

It may seem heartless to say to someone who’s been mourning, “Okay, it’s time to move on.  Life goes on.”  And it’s possible that somebody who offers that advice might not want to deal with a person in mourning.  Everyone mourns in their own way and at their own pace.

Having said that, we do indeed move on.  Again, think of Moses as a transitional figure.  Look at what verse 9 says.  After the time of mourning for Moses ended, we read “Joshua…was full of the spirit of wisdom, because Moses had laid his hands on him; and the Israelites obeyed him, doing as the Lord had commanded Moses.”  The Israelites know it is time to move on.

Moving on doesn’t only apply to the people, to the community.  I mentioned a few moments ago about “giving the gift of a good goodbye.”  This involves the leader, especially a beloved leader.  Failing to give the gift of a good goodbye indicates a refusal to let go.  This can apply to anyone in a position of leadership: pastors, politicians, even parents.

In our scripture, it is time for Moses to move on.  (Please understand, moving on doesn’t always mean somebody has to die!)  But Moses moves on, and now it’s time for Joshua.  The people have new challenges; a new chapter is being written.  This transition means Joshua steps onto the stage.

This play has a divine director, and in Joshua 3, we again hear the instructions regarding Moses’ understudy.  The Lord said to Joshua, “This day I will begin to exalt you in the sight of all Israel, so that they may know that I will be with you as I was with Moses” (v. 7).

What is Joshua’s first message after he takes the oath of office, so to speak?  (I want to get this out of the way!)  He tells the people their God “is the living God who without fail will drive out from before you” all the nations (v. 10).  If you read the rest of the book, you’ll see what that means is genocide, or at least, attempted genocide.  If you’re wondering how a loving God—no, a God who is love—could require such a thing, you’re not alone.

The truth is, that was not an uncommon form of warfare then, and sadly, it’s still with us.  A call of the Hebrew prophets was to no longer mimic the other nations, indeed, to be a light to them (Is 42:6, 49:6, 51:14).  It’s hard to be a light to someone you’re slaughtering.  We are capable of even the most heinous activity, and the most trivial activity, if we believe we’re serving God.

Moving on!  The Israelites face a bit of a hindrance in their journey: the Jordan River, which we’re told is at its yearly flood stage.  What are they to do?  Simple.  Now there are twelve priests bearing the ark of the covenant, which was built to hold the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.  As soon as they set foot in the river, the water will stop, and there will be dry land for everyone to cross over.  Easy-peasy.

We have echoes of Moses leading the people through the Red Sea, and here is Joshua following in his footsteps.  The nation faces a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

Put yourself in their shoes.  What are you thinking?  What are you feeling?  Are you overjoyed?  Are you supremely confident?  Or is there something else?  Are you anxious?  Are you terrified?  Do you feel abandoned?  Do you feel betrayed?  Do you feel rage?  Can we see ourselves as facing our own Jordan River, and with the river overflowing its banks?  This time of pandemic can seem uncrossable.

Banu and I have had those thoughts, those emotions.  It can feel like suffocation, or more appropriately, it can feel like drowning.  Seriously, what sane person can believe the river is going to make way for us, just so we can stroll to the other side?

I wonder, when will we be able to have people over for dinner?  What about Thanksgiving and Christmas?  What about Super Bowl parties?  (We like to have those; we even invite people who couldn’t care less about the game!  It’s just fun!)

We might find ourselves eulogizing.  We praise the way things were before.  Sure, they weren’t great, but they were better than this!  We mourn.  As I said earlier, it is important to mourn and to acknowledge that we are mourning, otherwise, it will be impossible to move on.  And so, are we ready to move on?

It would be easy to just to settle down next to the river.  I think we could get used to life there.  Despite everything that’s happened, it could be worse.  As just noted, we all have our Jordan River; we have it as a congregation.  We have it as a nation, just like those ancient Israelites.  However, if we don’t plunge ahead, if we don’t take that first step into the racing river, if we don’t trust where God is leading, we become complacent.  We lose our joy.  The colors are not so vivid.  They become a gray wash.

There is the promise of God given by the prophet, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you” (Is 43:2).  We eulogize.  We mourn.  And by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, we move on.

[1] www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-politics-of-being-replaced-deuteronomy-341-12

[2] www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-politics-of-being-replaced-deuteronomy-341-12

[3] Stefan Kiechle, The Art of Discernment (Notre Dame, IN:  Ave Maria Press, 2005), 76.

[4] Kiechle, 77.